The SheWolf and Her Pup
by emmylouuwho
Summary: 'He remembered his father's words; Lyanna truly had wolf blood, and would protect her pup like the she-wolf she was.' Lyanna survives Jon's birth. AU.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** I'll try to bring this all the way to the present (ADWD), but I may run out of steam, who knows. I have the next few chapters (nearly) done, but that's a lot. How does GRRM do it?  
Speaking of which, all rights to characters, etc. go to the awesome, soul-crushing GRRM.

* * *

"If anyone finds out, they'll come for him."

Lyanna still lay in the birthing bed, bloodied sheets in a basket in the corner. Ned was bloodied too, armor splashed with it; the clash of steel on steel, the cries of battle still ringing in his ears. He saw the fierceness of her gaze, even as she tenderly held her babe. _Jon. A good name._

"They'll come for him," she continued, voice hoarse. "To kill him or crown him. And I want neither for him. He will not be a pawn in their game. I won't let it happen."

She seemed to be waiting for him, but he said nothing.

"Ned, you know he'll kill the babe as well." He didn't need to ask who _he_ was. "He thinks my son the product of rape, and nothing I could say would dissuade him."

"What would you have me do?" he asked finally, feeling suddenly weary.

He already knew what she wanted, but it wasn't in his power to grant it. She was still betrothed. And Robert was his friend. His dearest friend.

"No one can know who his father is. Was." Her fierce gaze suddenly shone with tears. Mourning her dragon prince. _How did I not see it?_

"I will take him with me to Winterfell." _He's a Stark above all,_ Ned thought, taking in the head of dark hair. His eyes, now closed in sleep, were grey like Lyanna's own. His father may have been a dragon, but he would grow to be a wolf. "But you—"

"No. I will not wed the man who killed him, Ned."

Suddenly the look of the wolf faded, leaving his small sister, dwarfed by the wide bed, looking pale and sorrowful.

"Promise me, Ned."

"I can't."

"You are the Lord of Winterfell now," she reminded him, the title bringing with it the still fresh grief he'd pushed aside for the moment.

"He'll come for you, Lyanna. If I take you home. Have you not seen the force of his will already?" He gestured to himself, the blood splattering his armor and skin. _Blood shed for a false cause. To save my sister when she had no need of it. The Seven Kingdoms torn apart for the sake of a crown of roses._ "He'll bring his armies to Winterfell and burn it to the ground if I try to keep you from him."

"Then tell him I have died," she replied, emotionless. "Let him wed another, let him crown himself king. But I am a Stark. My place is in the North."

She wore the same determined look he knew so well. He'd seen it often enough, on her face and Brandon's; their decision, once made, was unchangeable. He remembered his father's words; Lyanna truly had wolf blood, and would protect her pup like the she-wolf she was.

At that moment, Howland Reed appeared in the doorway. He took in the scene before him without expression.

"You should make yourself ready to travel, my lady," he said evenly.

She smiled, the first one to reach her eyes since Ned found her. Lyanna looked down at the sleeping babe in her arms and crooned, "You hear that, Jon? We're going home."


	2. Starfall

"There's something I must do before we take her north," Ned said, nodding to where Lyanna sat with the babe at her breast.

His sister needed rest before they traveled as well, that he knew. But there was a shorter journey for him to take first. Howland Reed nodded knowingly, his gaze flicking to the saddlebags in the corner.

"Look after her while I'm gone." His voice made the statement almost a question. Howland, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face, obviously caught Ned's true meaning. _Don't let her do anything rash before I come back to talk sense into her._

* * *

It was several days of hard riding from the Tower of Joy to Starfall, but the greatsword wrapped in a torn cloak and strapped to his saddlebag was an unbearable weight.

Lord Allem Dayne received him with cold courtesy, hands fisted on his knees where he sat. He had the same strong features as his younger brother, but with Lady Ashara's dark hair. His eyes—closer to blue than his sister's startling violet—were cold with something like fury, something like despair.

Ned, having so recently been given similar news, nevertheless could not find the words to recount Ser Arthur's death. Not with Lady Ashara standing just behind her brother's seat.

He remembered her from the Harrenhal tournament. He had been stunned into silence by her beauty then. It was only after Brandon, with a wink and knowing smirk in his direction, spoke to her on his behalf that he found the courage to ask her for a dance. But even while dancing with him, she had only had eyes for Brandon.

The woman before him now was a shadow of the one in his memory. She was painfully thin, her face pale and drawn. Her once lustrous hair hung limply down her back. And her eyes, those violet eyes that so many remarked upon, were empty and distant. Ned wasn't even sure that she heard his words; her focus was on the far wall behind him.

"I return to you the sword of your house, my lord," he said, laying the sheathed Dawn on the stone floor before Lord Dayne. The man's gaze dropped briefly to the sword, then back up to Ned's face. The tightening of his jaw was all that betrayed his true feelings. He said not a word.

"I know what it is to lose a brother," Ned continued awkwardly. "And I am sorry to bring this pain on you and your sisters."

Lord Dayne nodded curtly, silently. It was a woman's voice, hoarse from disuse, that broke the silence a moment later.

"Get out."

Ned looked up to see Lady Ashara's violet eyes fixed on him, looking half-crazed with grief and sorrow. For a moment she looked ready to reach for the sword before her brother.

"Ashara," Lord Allem said sharply, voice low but stern.

She pressed her lips into a thin line, the knuckles of her interlaced fingers white where they were clasped before her.

Ned bowed once more and left without another word. There was nothing more to say. Just before the heavy oak door closed on the hall, above the creak of iron hinges, a wail reached his ears. That sound haunted him all the way back to the Tower of Joy.

* * *

Howland Reed had done as much as he could to disguise Lyanna's appearance by the time Ned returned. They picked lemons from a tree in the courtyard and used the juice to lighten her hair. The result was uneven, with some of her natural dark brown resisting the change, and a few strands of stark blonde here and there. They had also cut her previously waist length hair to just below her chin, giving her the look of a common girl rather than a highborn lady. No doubt that was their intention, but still the change was surprising to him when he returned. Lyanna glared furiously at Ned's raised brow when he greeted her.

"Don't say a word," she fairly growled. Ned nodded, biting back a smile.

The babe Jon had grown more than he would've thought possible in just two weeks. Holding him in his arms, Ned thought of his own son who he had yet to meet. _Robb._ He wondered if the child would have the Stark look as Jon did, or his mother's Tully coloring. He hoped the two boys would grow to be like brothers. _As Robert and I did._

His thoughts never took him far from the problem of Robert Baratheon. Lyanna was adamant in her refusal to honor their betrothal. She had already had misgivings about the match before the Harrenhal tourney, and Ned wasn't sure she'd been wrong in her fears. Now, knowing Robert had slain her dragon prince, she wanted nothing to do with him. Just the mention of his name from Ned and she became unresponsive, lips pressed into a thin line and nostrils flaring. She would rock the babe in her arms silently, ignoring the rest of the world.

Jon was the quietest child Ned had ever encountered. He rarely cried, and when he did he was easily pacified with a song or a finger to hold. He seemed especially fond of Howland. _Something he learned from his mother no doubt,_ Ned thought with a wan smile, watching the small man fashion a sling from an old woolen cloak for the child. Lyanna accepted it with a pleased smile and thanked him. She had indeed made a loyal friend for life that day at Harrenhal.

* * *

_"You don't belong here."_

_"I don't think we have anything to your tastes at the feast this evening, frogeater."_

_"Go back to your swamp, mud man."_

_The vile insults were getting louder and louder, joined now by the sounds of fists and boots on flesh. Lyanna rounded the corner, already seething from what she'd heard, but the scene before her made her blood boil._

_"Get away from him," she yelled, but after glancing in her direction, the three boys ignored her cries and turned back to their victim. They wore the clothes of squires, but for whom she didn't know. She spotted a tourney sword leaning against the wall nearby, no doubt left by one of these same squires, and seized it._

_She flew down the hall, shrieking, "Get away from him, you disrespectful little weasels!" The three attackers, none older than four-and-ten, stared slack-jawed at her while their victim, a crannogman judging from his green tunic and their disparaging names for him, huddled against the wall. "That is one of my father's bannerman you're kicking!"_

_She swung the blunted blade at the now openly terrified boys, who scattered before her. She caught the slowest across the backside with the flat of the blade. "Lord Stark will hear of this, I promise you!"_

_When the hall was empty save for the huddled man on the floor and herself, Lyanna paused for a moment to catch her breath. The man before her groaned as he attempted to pull himself to his feet. She knelt quickly and gripped his forearm to help. Though he looked older than her brother Brandon, at least two-and-twenty, he was no taller than she. Standing at his full height, his unusually green eyes were at the same level as her grey ones. He had a cut above one eye, which was beginning to purple, and his bottom lip was split in the center._

_"I am sorry for them, my lord," she said, trying to tamp down the urge to chase after the boys and truly teach them manners. "If you will come with me, I'll have your injuries seen to."_

_"You need not apologize for the actions of others, Lady Stark."_

_Lyanna knew him for a Reed by the lizard-lion on his tunic, but had never met the man. She chewed her lip, feeling uncomfortable, briefly wishing she'd paid more attention to the line of knights and lords introduced to her the day before. He looked at her for a long moment with piercing eyes that seemed to see more than others did. "My name is Howland, of House Reed, my lady," he added with a slight bow, wincing as he straightened. Lyanna smiled; he must've read her mind._

_When they reached her father's tent outside the tourney grounds, Lyanna found all three of her brothers seated around the makeshift table. Brandon was boasting over a new technique that he insisted would ensure his victory in the lists the following day, while Benjen broke into his monologue every few minutes to disagree on one point or another, frowning when Brandon ignored him. Ned watched them with an amused expression, sipping his wine and keeping his own counsel. _Nothing new here, then,_ Lyanna thought with a smile._

_Ned was the first to note her arrival, and that she had brought a guest with her. He stood respectfully, causing Brandon and Benjen to notice them as well and follow suit._

_"Lord Reed, may I present my brothers, Brandon, Eddard, and Benjen, of House Stark," she said formally, gesturing to each one in turn. "This is Howland Reed, of Greywater Watch."_

_The men all shook hands, each of her brothers towering over the crannogman, while Lyanna called for her maid to bring water and a cloth for his injuries. Even Benjen, who was only just turned three-and-ten, was a head taller than Howland; but then, Benjen had always been tall and skinny as a tourney lance._

_True to form, Benjen was the first to inquire about the source of Howland's injuries. Once he and Lyanna related the incident, Howland filling in the story of the squires coming upon him after finishing off some pilfered flagons of wine. Her brothers were as outraged as she still was. Even quiet Ned, always giving away so little of his thoughts, even to those who knew him best, had a thunderous look on his stern features._

* * *

They were packed to leave by nightfall the day Ned returned from Starfall. The three of them would travel north together in the morning. Ned had no doubt that he would have to stop in Kings Landing to meet with Robert, who was leading his victorious armies there from the Riverlands. Howland Reed would continue on with Lyanna and the boy, disguised as Ned's bastard son and his nurse.

He knew he should rest, but Ned was kept awake with thoughts of the deception he would have to tell his dearest friend. And he was still unsure how long it would last. Every servant in Winterfell knew Lyanna well enough; many of them had known her since birth. How could they be expected to contain the news of her survival? But as always, these concerns meant nothing to his sister. All that mattered was reaching the safety of the North with her child. She had no thoughts for the moment of the future, refused to speak of anything beyond reaching Winterfell. She had always been rash, but Ned feared the grief of losing the prince and the intense protective instincts of motherhood had only increased that tendency.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the wait, all you lovely followers. I meant to post more of this before school started back, but play rehearsals, work, and my sister interfered. I know, real life, blah blah blah. So thanks for sticking with me, and I'll try to update faster.

Just a small note about ages, which I had to look up, because I was confused myself. Lyanna is supposed to be around 14 at Harrenhal, and 16 when she dies at the Tower. And I'm planning to use flashbacks from Harrenhal up to the Tower to show how it all went down (at least in my mind), so that's what the big chunks of italics are.


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